scissors

The little boy picked up his scissors. He dug the tip into the wood and dragged it down in a thin line. These were baby scissors, hardly for slicing through the glossy desk top. What he needed were the real scissors up on the teacher's desk, or the kind his mother had in a mug by the phone. But he couldn't see a way to get the them from where he sat and so he just repeated the same line on his desk with his play scissors until a deeper ridge formed. The edges were rough with fraying wood particles and the line was ugly. This was perfect. The bell had rung and the day was over; the gash in his desk was much deeper. As the teacher helped on coats he was afriad she would look over and say "What are you doing over there?" with the adult voice that already knows you're in trouble. But he quickly covered up the desk top with his chair as all the children clattered their chairs up on their desks and lined up at the door. He put on his ugly coat. Actually it was his older brother's but they called it his now. It was too big, too old, and had a broken zipper, but it was perfect for hiding his mother's old sewing scissors in its large bulky pockets.